hair

Many of you may have noticed that Tiny sports an impressive head of hair.  He takes after his mother, in case you were wondering.  It has lost some of the wild wave of his baby days and is now straight as a drinking straw, in a hue of strawberry blonde that gets redder as it gets longer.  He pays it little heed, unless it hangs in his eyes, it which point he rubs them. "Sore eyes." he claims.  So that he would be able to see all the fun of his much-anticipated birthday tomorrow ("Fweddie's birthday, soooooon"), I decided, in a fit of spontaneity, that we should fit in a quick haircut tonight - somewhere between walking the dog and eating our beans.

In my enthusiasm, I forgot that he had been practising his "NO!" all week in preparation for turning Terrible Two.  If I'd had time to develop an imagined scenario of how it would go, I would have pictured him sitting in his little booster chair, curious, a little unsure, but nevertheless largely compliant.  It would have been a nice fantasy, but fantasy it would have been.

There was outrage.  There were tears. There was needing Mummy.  Needing Daddy.  There was twitching and flinching.  There was railing.  There was gnashing of teeth.

There was reassuring.  There was distraction.  There were cuddles.  There was singing - lots of it - right in the middle of a busy salon.  There was hair everywhere (I still feel some in my mouth.)  His Daddy got the giggles of absurdity.

And, finally, there was a finished haircut.